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The Sicilian Method
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In the new novel in the transporting New York Times bestselling Inspector Montalbano mystery series, Montalbano finds his answers to a murder in a theatrical play
Mimi Augello is visiting his lover when the woman’s husband unexpectedly returns to the apartment; he climbs out the window and into the downstairs apartment, but one danger leads to another. In the dark he sees a body lying on the bed. Shortly after, another body is found, and the victim is Carmelo Catalanotti, a director of bourgeois dramas with a harsh reputation for the acting method he developed for his actors.
Are the two deaths connected? Catalanotti scrupulously kept notes and comments on all the actors he worked with, as well as strange notebooks full of figures and dates and names. Inspector Montalbano finds all of Catalanotti’s dossiers and plays, the notes on the characters, and the notes on his last drama, Dangerous Turn–the theater is where he’ll find the answer.“You either love Andrea Camilleri or you haven’t read him yet. Each novel in this wholly addictive, entirely magical series, set in Sicily and starring a detective unlike any other in crime fiction, blasts the brain like a shot of pure oxygen. Aglow with local color, packed with flint-dry wit, as fresh and clean as Mediterranean seafood — altogether transporting. Long live Camilleri, and long live Montalbano.” —A.J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window
“The idiosyncratic Montalbano is totally endearing.” —The New York Times
“Camilleri is as crafty and charming a writer as his protagonist is an investigator.” —The Washington Post Book World
“Hailing from the land of Umberto Eco and La Cosa Nostra, Montalbano can discuss a pointy-headed book like Western Attitudes Toward Death as unflinchingly as he can pore over crime-scene snuff photos. He throws together an extemporaneous lunch of shrimp with lemon and oil as gracefully as he dodges advances from attractive women.” —Los Angeles Times
“Like Mike Hammer or Sam Spade, Montalbano is the kind of guy who can’t stay out of trouble. . . . Still, deftly and lovingly translated by Stephen Sartarelli, Camilleri makes it abundantly clear that under the gruff, sardonic exterior our inspector has a heart of gold, and that any outburst, fumbles, or threats are made only in the name of pursuing truth.” —The Nation
“Camilleri can do a character’s whole backstory in half a paragraph.” —The New Yorker
“Subtle, sardonic, and molto simpatico: Montalbano is the Latin re-creation of Philip Marlowe, working in a place that manages to be both more and less civilized than Chandler’s Los Angeles.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“The novels of Andrea Camilleri breathe out the sense of place, the sense of humor, and the sense of despair that fills the air of Sicily.” —Donna LeonAndrea Camilleri, a mega-bestseller in Italy and Germany, is the author of the New York Times bestselling Inspector Montalbano mystery series as well as historical novels that take place in nineteenth-century Sicily. His books have been made into Italian TV shows and translated into thirty-two languages. His thirteenth Montalbano novel, The Potter’s Field, won the Crime Writers’ Association International Dagger Award and was longlisted for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. He died in 2019.
Stephen Sartarelli is an award-winning translator and the author of three books of poetry.
1
He found himself in a clearing beside a thicket of chestnut trees. The ground was covered by a special kind of red and yellow daisy he’d never seen before, but which filled the air with a wondrous scent. He felt like walking on them barefoot and was bending down to untie his shoes when he heard a loud jingling of bells. Stopping to listen, he saw a flock of small brown and white goats come out of the woods, each of them wearing a collar of bells around its neck. As the animals drew near, the jingling became a single, insistent sound, sharp and unending, growing in volume until it began to hurt his ears.
Awakened by the pain, he became aware that the sound, which persisted even into his waking consciousness, was nothing more than the monumental pain-in-the-ass telephone. He realized he would have to get up and answer but was unable; he was still too numb with sleep and all cotton-mouthed. Reaching out with one arm, he turned on the light and looked at the clock: three a.m.
Who could it be at such an hour?
The ringing persisted, giving him no respite.
He got up, went into the dining room, and picked up the receiver.
“‘llo, ‘oo ziss?”
Those were the words that came out of his mouth.
There was a moment of silence, then a voice: “But is this the Montalbano home?”
“Yes.”
“This is Mim“!”
“What the fuck . . . ?”
“Please, Salvo, please. Open up, I’ll be there momentarily.”
“Open what up?”
“Your front door.”
“Wait a second.”
He started walking very slowly, like an automaton, in fits and starts. When he reached the door, he opened it.
He looked outside.
There was nobody.
“Mim“! Where the hell are you?” he called into the night.
Silence.
He closed the door.
Wanna bet it was all a dream?
He went back to bed and rolled himself up in the covers.
Just as he was drifting off to sleep again, the doorbell rang.
No, it hadn’t been a dream.
Montalbano went to the door and opened it.
Mim“ then pushed it forcefully from the outside. The inspector, having no time to step aside, took the full thrust of the door bodily and crashed against the wall.
As Montalbano had no breath left with which to curse, Mim“ couldn’t figure out where he was and so called out: “Salvo, where are you?”
The inspector then kicked the door shut, leaving Mim“ once again outside.
He started shouting: “Are you going to let me in or not?”
Montalbano opened the door again and stepped aside in a flash, standing stock-still as he watched Mim“ come in, eyes shooting daggers. Mim“, who knew his way around the house, quickly raced past him and into the dining room, where he opened the sideboard and took out a bottle of whisky and a glass. Then he collapsed into a chair and started drinking.
Up to that point Montalbano hadn’t breathed a word and, still without opening his mouth, he went into the kitchen to make himself his usual mug of espresso. He’d realized, upon seeing Mim“’s face, that the guy had something very serious to tell him.
Mim“ joined him in the kitchen and sat down in another chair.
“I wanted to tell you . . .” he began, but stopped, only then noticing that the inspector was naked.
And Montalbano, too, realized only then, and so he dashed into his bedroom and grabbed a pair of jeans.
As he was putting them on, he wondered whether it might be best to put on an undershirt as well, but decided that Mim“ wasn’t worth it.
He went back into the kitchen.
“I wanted to tell you . . .” Mim“ began again.
“Wait. Let me drink my coffee first, then we can talk.”
The mugful’s effect was just barely sufficient.
The inspector sat down opposite Mim“, fired up a cigarette, and said: “Okay, you can talk now.”
As soon as Mim“ started telling his story, Montalbano-perhaps because he was still sort of half-asleep-felt as if he was watching it on a movie screen, as if Mim“’s words immediately turned into moving images.
It was late at night. The street was rather broad, and the car advanced silently and ever so slowly, drifting past the other cars parked along the sidewalk. It seemed not to be rolling on wheels but sliding on butter.
All at once the car took off, lurched over to the left side, swerved, and parked in an instant.
The driver’s-side door opened and a man got out, carefully closing the door behind him.
It was Mim“ Augello.
He pulled the collar of his jacket up to his nose, tucked his head down between his shoulders, took a quick look around, and then, in three short hops, crossed the road and found himself on the opposite sidewalk.
Keeping his head bowed, he took a few steps straight ahead, stopped in front of a door, reached out with one hand, and, without even looking at the names listed, rang one of the buzzers.
The answer came at once: “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
The latch-lock clicked. Mim“ pushed the door open, went inside, and closed the door behind him in the twinkling of an eye, then started climbing the stairs on tiptoe. He’d decided he would make less noise on foot than by taking the elevator.
Reaching the fourth floor, he saw a shaft of light filtering out from a door ajar. Approaching it, he pushed it open and went in. The woman, who’d apparently been waiting for him in the entrance hall, grabbed him with her left hand while, with her right, she closed and locked the door with four turns of the key in the top lock and two more in the bottom lock, before tossing the keys onto a small table. Mim“ made as if to embrace the woman, but she stepped back, took him by the hand, and said in a soft voice: “Let’s go in the other room.”
Mim“ obeyed.
Now they were in the bedroom, and the woman embraced Mim“ and pressed her lips against his. Mim“ held her tight, returning her passionate kiss.
At that exact moment, the two lovers froze and looked at each other with eyes open wide in terror.
Had they really heard the key turning in the front-door lock?
A fraction of a second later, they had no more doubts.
Someone was opening the door.
In a flash, Mim“ dashed over to the balcony, opened the French door, and went outside, as his lady friend quickly reclosed the door behind him.
He heard her ask: “Martino, is that you?”
A man’s voice from inside the apartment replied: “Yes, it’s me.”
And she: “Why are you back?”
“I called in a replacement; I’m not feeling very well.”
Mim“ didn’t wait to hear any more. He had no time to lose, and felt utterly trapped. He could hardly spend the night cringing outside the window and had to think of a way to get himself out of that uncomfortable, dangerous situation.
He leaned out to look below.
There was a balcony exactly like the one he was on: old-style, with a cast-iron railing.
If he climbed over the railing he could reach the one below, keeping his hands fastened on the bars of his railing and lowering his body down, little by little.
At any rate, there was no other escape route.
And so, wasting no more time, he stood up on tiptoe, looked to the left and right to make sure no cars were coming, and, seeing that all was quiet, climbed over the balustrade, rested his feet on the outer ridge of the balcony, and crouched down. Then, lowering his legs while hanging on with all the strength in his arms, he managed to touch the railing of the balcony below with the tips of his toes.
Arching his back and swinging his legs forward, he then executed an athletic leap and managed to land on his feet on the third-floor balcony.
He’d done it!
He leaned his back against the wall, panting heavily and feeling his clothes sticking to his sweaty body.
As soon as he felt ready for more acrobatics, he leaned out again to survey the situation.
Below him was another balcony exactly like the other two.
He calculated that, once he got to the second floor, he would be able to grab onto a large metal pipe that ran parallel to the main door of the building and from there drop himself onto the street.
He decided to rest a little longer before attempting his descent. When he took a step back, his shoulders touched the balcony’s half-open shutters. In terror he feared that his movements might be seen or heard by someone inside the room. Turning ever so slowly on his heels, he then noticed that not only were the shutters open, but so was the window. He stood stock-still for a moment, trying to think. Might it not be better, rather than risking a broken neck for the second time that night, to try to go through the apartment without making any noise? On the other hand, he thought, he was a cop, after all, and if he were somehow caught, he could always come up with some kind of excuse. Carefully pushing the shutters and window aside, he stuck his head into the room, which was in total darkness. No matter how hard he listened, holding his breath, all he could hear was absolute silence. Summoning his courage, he opened the window even more and stuck his head and upper body inside. He held completely still, ears peeled for any sound, a rustle, a breath . . . Nothing. The wan light from the street was enough to let him know that he was in a bedroom-which, he realized, was unoccupied.
He advanced two more steps and then an accident happened: He crashed into a chair and tried to grab it before it fell to the floor, but didn’t manage in time.
The noise it made was like a cannon blast.
He froze, turned into a statue of salt. Someone would now turn on the light, start screaming, even . . . But why was nothing happening?
The silence was even deeper than before.
Was it possible he’d been lucky as hell and there was nobody home at that moment?
He stopped and stood still, looking around to confirm this impression.
His eyes were growing more accustomed to the darkness, and because of this he thought he could make out a large dark shape on the bed.
He brought his vision into better focus: It was a human body!
How could the person possibly be sleeping so deeply as not to have heard the racket he’d made?
Mim“ drew near. Touching the bed ever so lightly with his hand, he realized that it wasn’t made. There was merely a sheet over a mattress. He kept feeling around, drawing closer to the dark shape, and finally came up against a pair of man’s shoes, then the cuffs of trousers.
Why had the man gone to bed fully dressed?
He took a step alongside the bed, reached out, and started touching the man’s body, running his hand over the perfectly buttoned-up jacket. Then he bent down to hear the man’s breath.
Nothing.
And so, plucking up his courage, he laid his palm decisively on the man’s forehead.
And withdrew it at once.
He’d felt the chill of death.
The images vanished.
Mim“’s words suddenly became the sound of a film reel spinning empty.
“So what did you do next?”
“I stood there without moving, then headed for the door, still in total darkness, opened it, went out and down the stairs . . .”
“Did you run into anyone?”
“No, nobody. Then I walked over to my car, got in, and drove here.”
Montalbano realized that, despite the mugful of coffee he’d drunk, he was in no condition to ask Mim“ the questions he needed to.
“Excuse me just a minute,” he said, getting up and leaving the room.
He went into the bathroom, turned on the cold-water tap, and put his head under it. He stayed that way for a minute, cooling his brain off, then dried himself and went back into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Mim“, but why did you come here?” he asked.
Mim“ Augello looked at him in astonishment.
“So what should I have done, in your opinion?”
“You should have done what you didn’t do.”
“Namely?”
“Since, as you said yourself, there was nobody in the apartment, you should have turned on the light and not run away.”
“Why?”
“So you could look for other details. For example, you told me there was a dead man on the bed. But how, in your opinion, did he die?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that I got so scared I ran away.”
“That was a mistake. Maybe he died a natural death.”
“What do you mean?”
“What makes you think the poor guy was murdered? Since you described him as all dressed up and lying on top of the bed, it’s possible the man came home, felt really bad, and had just enough time to lie down and die, maybe from a heart attack . . .”
“Okay, but what’s the difference?”
“There’s a world of difference. Because if you were dealing with a man who died of natural causes, that’s one thing, and we at the police can pretend we know nothing about it; but if the man is a murder victim, that changes everything radically, and it is our duty to intervene. But, before replying, Mim“, think it over carefully. Try to concentrate and tell me if you had any sense, even the slightest inkling, of whether the man was murdered or died on his own.”
Mim“ struck a pose, brow furrowed, elbows on the table, and head in his hands.
“Try to draw on your lifetime of experience as a cop,” Montalbano urged him.
“Well, frankly,” said Mim“ after a pause of a few seconds, “I did notice something, though just barely. It might just be the power of suggestion, I dunno . . .”
“Try telling me anyway,” Montalbano encouraged him.
“I could be wrong, but when I went up to him to touch his forehead, I thought I smelled something strange and sickly sweet.”
“Maybe blood?”
“What can I say . . . ?”
“That’s not enough,” said Montalbano, getting up.
At that moment, however, he froze, staring at Augello, who still had his face buried in his hands.
Then he leaned across the table, grabbed Mim“’s right arm, twisted it, quickly looked at it, then thrust it back at him so that it struck him in the face.
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| Dimensions | 0.7700 × 5.0700 × 7.7100 in |
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